Suicide in '63
by 12jammiedodgers
Summary: The Doctor, Amy, and Rory land in 1960s London. Their harmless sight-seeing, however, takes a dark turn as they begin to investigate a trail of deaths, and soon realise that it's not as simple as it first appears. - Reviews and criticism welcomed.
1. Chapter One

Chapter One

'Doctor, where exactly are we going?' Amy Pond struts down the glass steps, gliding her hand along the metal rail, towards the central control deck of the TARDIS. She eagerly hops down from the last step, blows a strand of red hair from her vision, and proceeds to circle around the control panel. After completing a lap of the centre console and returning to the foot of the staircase without a reply, she stops to find both her husband and the Doctor reclining on the cream leather chairs either side of her. She nudges Rory causing him to wake sharply, muttering something about a duck pond, and strides over to the other chair.

With his long legs outstretched and his hands behind his head, the Doctor perches precariously on the very edge of the leather chair; Amy thought that if she woke him now he'd probably fall off – undeterred, she gives his legs a sharp kick in an attempt to get some attention. His arms flail upwards as he struggles to keep himself balanced on the springing chair, and the fez, that was placed on the front of his head, covering his eyes, falls backwards down into the lower level of the TARDIS.

'Pond!' he starts, having recovered his composure, 'what was that for?' He stands up and runs his hands through his floppy hair in an attempt to recover what little dignity remains. 'I had to go all the way to Morocco-7 for that fez.' He leans over the rail and swings back and forth, 'it'll take weeks to find down there.'

'I didn't know you slept' said Amy, ignoring the Doctor's apparent annoyance at the loss of his hat. He whirls around to face her, acknowledging Rory in mid-spin.

'I wasn't sleeping' he argues, rubbing his hands together and looking past her to the control panel, 'I was thinking'. With a light step, the Doctor pushes past her and starts spinning levers and pressing buttons, seemingly at random.

'You're doing it again' murmurs the Doctor, looking up at the monitor.

'Sorry.'

'No' he replies, 'I don't mean you, Rory'. The Doctor spins another lever and pulls the monitor down to eye level. 'I think she's trying to tell me something' he says, with a mixture of confusion and concern in his voice.

'Yes, I am' Amy continues, 'I asked you where we're going'. The Doctor stops suddenly and looks over to her; his brow is furrowed, a look of genuine confusion on his face.

'What?' the Doctor asks. He prods a blinking button to his left, without averting his gaze.

'I'm the one who's trying to tell you something' Amy replies, frustration building in her voice. 'Where are we going?'

'No, I meant the TARDIS' says the Doctor bluntly, returning to the monitor and continuing to press buttons and tap dials. 'She's not been quite right the past few days. She keeps making odd noises.'

'It always makes odd noises?' suggests Rory, trying to avoid his wife's oncoming exasperation by stepping around to the other side of the console.

'You're quite right, Rory' the Doctor agrees, to the further annoyance of Amy. 'But these noises are different.' He stares at the monitor and tilts his head to the side. 'It's something small. But it's definitely something.'

The Doctor, unimpressed with his findings, pushes the monitor upwards, twirls back towards the leather chair and sits down. He reaches up to his head in search of a fez but, to his displeasure, finds nothing. Instead he stretches out his legs and resumes his unstable, but comfortable, reclined position.

'Will somebody please tell me where we are going?' Amy blurts out, her annoyance now obvious to all. She looks over to Rory, who quickly becomes interested with nothing at his feet, and then back at the Doctor.

'We're not going very far, I'm afraid' concedes the Doctor. He leans forwards in the chair, predicting that further explanation will be required, and places his elbows on his knees.

'Why?'

'Because the TARDIS is trying to tell me something,' the Doctor stares at the centre console and begins moving his hands in an attempt to illustrate his point. 'It's definitely something small that's upsetting her, but if we start jumping through millions of year's worth of time and space it could make it worse – much worse. I don't want to take that risk when I don't know what's wrong.' He looks up at Amy, checking to see if his explanation has sufficed, before continuing: 'so for now it's best if we don't travel too far.' Satisfied that Amy isn't going to interrogate him further, the Doctor resumes his awkward position on the chair: his legs outstretched, and his hands supporting his head. 'Rory!' he barks, 'take a look at the monitor and tell us where we are.' Rory shuffles around the console and stares at the screen for a moment, his mouth hanging slightly open.

'Erm...it's all just funny symbols' he surmises.

'Oh, right, of course. Well...' the Doctor replies; he sucks the end of his finger and points upwards. 'I'd say we're somewhere near the Graelliscy system, around...' he wiggles his finger slightly, 'the twentieth century?'

'How did you–' Rory starts.

'So we're going to this Grail-sky?' interrupts Amy.

'No, nothing particularly interesting happens on Graelliscy for at least another twelve centuries. We could probably risk a quick hop over to Earth; shouldn't put too much strain on–' The Doctor glances up to see Rory still standing by the control platform, his arm outstretched, about to press a small green button below the monitor. 'RORY, NO!' bellows the Doctor. He leaps from his chair, surprisingly with more grace and dignity than before, and lunges towards him.

Upon hearing the Doctor's command, Rory stops instantly and takes a step backwards, his arm still outstretched. 'W-what did I almost do?' He looks over to his wife and back to the Doctor, not attempting to hide the look of terror on his face. 'Did I almost rip a hole in time and space? Or-or create a black hole?' The lack of an answer causes Rory's eyes to widen further; he takes another step back from the console. 'W-what would have happened?' he says, his voice quivering.

'Oh don't be so melodramatic' the Doctor replies. Rory stares at him with a blank expression. 'The button gets stuck down, and it's extremely annoying. I only managed to fix it last week.'

'S-so, we're fine?' Rory stammers.

'Of course we are' the Doctor says with confidence; he begins pulling levers and spinning random wheels. 'As far as I can tell, all that changes when it's pressed is that the exterior shell of the TARDIS becomes ever so slightly magnetised – it's entirely useless. Oh, and the button lights up.' He palms a knob to his right that rings a small bell: the platform begins to shake, the central column lights up and pulsates, and the TARDIS starts its familiar whirring.

'Finally!' remarks Amy. She walks over to Rory and places a comforting hand on his shoulder in an attempt to remove the look of fear from his face.

'Okay' the Doctor exclaims, rejuvenated by the thought of adventure, 'let's see where we've landed.' He skips down the steps towards the door of the TARDIS, pushes it open and steps outside. A moment later the Doctor's head appears in the doorway, his hair falling over his face, his bow tie slightly twisted; 'come along, Ponds!'

* * *

><p><em>Cue the music: .comwatch?v=QOlUV8iE3tU&feature=related _


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

The Doctor stands at a street corner staring up at the TARDIS, not quite believing what he is seeing, and completely oblivious to the commotion happening behind him. In front of him stands the familiar bright blue Police box, and next to it stands another, identical bright blue Police box. He looks from one to the other, with a hand slightly outstretched, attempting to construct a logical explanation in his mind for the impossibility occurring before him.

Amy appears at the open door of the TARDIS, dragging her husband by the hand behind her. She stops suddenly at the sight of the Doctor, causing Rory to bump into her. Rory's face appears over Amy's shoulder: 'what's going on?' he asks.

'Doctor' says Amy, 'are you okay?' She steps out of the TARDIS, spins around, and stands next to the Doctor. In an instant she adopts the same facial expression and stares blankly at the identical boxes in front of her.

'Okay, this is weird' says Rory, still looking out from the doorway of the TARDIS.

The door of the other, identical Police box opens and a short man, wearing a navy blue, single-breasted coat and a black tie, steps out onto the street; under his arm is a black-peaked cap with a chequered band. The man is taken aback by the presence of the Doctor and Amy staring directly at him, and confirms his disapproval with a strange grunt. After a moment, however, he adjusts the large-lens spectacles on his nose, places the cap on his balding head, and closes the door of the Police box behind him. Before he can address the Doctor and Amy, the man spots Rory still standing in the doorway of the TARDIS, and shuffles towards him.

'Get out of there, boy' the man says, whilst grabbing Rory by the arm and dragging him into the street. Rory stumbles onto the pavement, lines up next to the Doctor and his wife, and, upon seeing the two Police boxes side by side, adopts the correct facial expression. 'What can the three of you possibly be getting up to inside there?' the man questions, as he grabs the door of the TARDIS and pull it shut. He doesn't wait for an answer to his question. 'These boxes belong to the Metropolitan Police; they're not here for you to go hiding in! Though why they think we need two on one corner' says the man, patting the wooden exterior of the TARDIS, 'is totally beyond me.'

'Oh, so... you're a Policeman?' Amy asks; her eyes widening as she begins to grasp an understanding of the situation.

'Of course I am' he replies. He stares at the three of them stood in front of him, particularly Rory who still has a look of utter confusion on his face. 'I'm Sergeant Henson – and you three best be on your way. You don't want to be caught up in all of this' he says, nodding to the events happening behind them.

The Doctor looks over his shoulder, before spinning his body around, to get a good look at the scene. The street is crowded with people: half a dozen Policemen, all dressed in the same uniform as Sergeant Henson, are attempting to hold back a small crowd of people; an ambulance, with its hinged back doors open, is parked on the pavement just beyond them. The flock of onlookers, the majority of them women and children, are attempting to get a glimpse at a huddle of Policemen standing at the doorway of one of the terraced houses. There is a fog of stifled commotion hanging over the street, but nobody shouts or even raises their voice – the crowd of onlookers talk in whispers.

Eager for a closer look, the Doctor creeps forward, unsure as to how to correctly approach the situation. Amy quickly follows his lead, and leaves Rory standing alone on the street corner, still somewhat perplexed at the sight of two identical Police boxes before him. As they get nearer to the barrier of Policemen blocking the crowd of onlookers, the Doctor reaches inside his jacket, retrieves a small leather wallet, flashes the contents of which to the nearest Policeman and strides cautiously towards the huddle of people by the doorway of the house. Amy, a few paces behind, goes to follow the Doctor, but is stopped abruptly by a man in navy blue.

'Sorry, Miss, I can't let you any closer.'

She stands with the crowd of eager onlookers, straining her neck to watch the Doctor animatedly introduce himself to the huddle of confused men by the doorway. A few moments later she is joined by her husband and they share a concerned glance. For a minute or two the pair stands in the crowd: Amy stares directly at the gathering of people in front of her, annoyed that the Doctor has excluded her, whilst Rory examines their surroundings, and shoots confused looks over to the pair of Police boxes still standing side by side on the street corner.

The Doctor returns with a grim expression on his face. He motions for the three of them to escape the crowd and strides back towards the TARDIS and its twin. 'Bit of a sad sight, I'm afraid' the Doctor explains, as he walks along. 'A boy fell from the upstairs window,' he turns to face them as they return to the street corner, 'he's bleeding internally and... he's not going to make it.'

'That's horrible' Amy remarks.

'I checked him over and it wasn't anything alien' the Doctor says quietly, 'it was just an accident.' The Doctor's eyes, ordinarily glinting with the thought of boyish adventure, are darkened by image of the young boy lying motionless on the pavement: another horrific sight added to hundreds of year's worth of anguish that can never be unseen.

'I'm a nurse, Doctor' argues Rory; his tone of voice a mixture of anger and regret. Even after travelling through time and space, Rory Williams, The Boy Who Waited, Rory the Roman, Rory Pond, he still has an intrinsic desire to help others: 'I could have helped.'

After a moment of silent respect, the Doctor turns his back on the scene and begins to walk in the opposite direction.

'Well can you at least explain to me why there are two TARDIS's?' Rory asks, the anger fading from his voice. He looks back and forth between Amy, who rolls her eyes, and the Doctor, who begins waving his arms in explanation.

'Well the last time the TARDIS landed in this part of time and space, one of its circuits malfunctioned causing the exterior camouflage to become permanently fixed: that's why it always looks like a Police box. Now that I'm here again, it just so happens that we've landed right next to...,' the Doctor opens the door of the second box, 'an _actual_ Police box.'

'Hey! I thought I told you three to pack it in?' shouts a voice from inside. The Doctor quickly snaps the door shut and spins on the spot to give Amy and Rory an informative look. The three of them, all instinctively knowing exactly what to do, make a hasty exit to the next street, leaving the unfortunate Policeman irritated and confused.


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

The trio turn into a busy high-street; the Doctor strides ahead of Amy and Rory, leading them nowhere in particular. They are surrounded by the buzz of ordinary people going out about their ordinary lives: young women in brightly coloured coats and dresses strut between fashionable shops, elderly couples hobble off busses and sit on benches, young men in striped shirts and flared trousers watch the women go by, middle-aged men in closely-cut suits pace confidentially down the street, swinging their leather briefcases beside them without a care in the world, and school children, dressed in blazers or skirts, late for school, hurry through the crowd.

'Judging by the wonderful fashion' Amy says, her head turning to follow the women passing her by, 'I'd say we're somewhere in the sixties?'

'Thank you, Pond' replies the Doctor smugly; he stops to straighten his bow tie in the reflection of a shop window, and tugs slightly at the lapels of his jacket. 'This is probably the only place in all of time and space where the TARDIS and I actually blend in.'

'So this is the sixties?' asks Rory.

'That's correct!' the Doctor replies, spinning around to continue striding down the high-street. 'London, nineteen-sixty-three: it's a wonderful year! What is the date exactly?' The Doctor stops in front of a well-dressed gentleman relaxing on a bench, with his legs crossed, reading the morning newspaper. The Doctor bends right down to read the date on the front page, causing the well-dressed man to give him a stern, confused stare. 'Tuesday the twenty-first of May!' He looks upwards at the somewhat overcast sky, the sun attempting to peak out from behind the clouds: 'not what I'd call summer.' Concerned that the well-dressed gentleman has started to fold away his newspaper, the Doctor resumes his stroll down the high-street with slightly more pace than before.

'Hell of a year, sixty-three' he continues. 'There's great music, The Beatles are at number one; I love The Beatles, me. You've got good-looking cars, and cool fashion' looking around to Amy whilst tweaking his bow tie. 'Great spectacles' he tells a passing young man, pointing at his pair of black, thick-rimmed glasses. 'And apparently there's some great television too. I've never really had time for television, though – but you humans do. As soon as something shiny appears on the box you can't stop watching it, like some kind of magpie.'

At this comment, Rory shoots a sarcastic look at his wife. 'Oy!' Amy replies, giving him slap on the arm, 'I don't watch that much tele!'

'And if it's the twenty-first of May, that means that in America, President Kennedy has exactly...' the Doctor makes a quick calculation on his fingers, 'one-hundred and eighty-five days until he returns home.' The Doctor stops in front of shop window at the end of the high-street, looking triumphant and pleased with himself and his clever speech.

'Goes home?' questions Amy; 'you mean... JFK was an alien?'

'No that's absurd' the Doctor replies. 'He's an alien using the President's human body.'

'Why do aliens always infect humans?' Rory asks.

'Because you're never paying attention' replies the Doctor. 'Right then,' he spins around to put his arms around the shoulders of his companions and looks into the shop window, 'what do you want to do?'

'Well,' Amy says, shrugging off the Doctor's arm, 'I thought Rory and I could go exploring? You know, London, nineteen-sixty-three – it's kind of romantic?'

The Doctor's gives her a look of utter disgust: 'I don't want to do that, it sounds boring!' he says in a childish, whiny voice.

'I was thinking it would just be... me and Rory?' Amy replies.

'Oh, of course... right.' The Doctor removes his arm from Rory's shoulder and brushes himself down. 'Do you remember the rules?' he asks.

Amy gives him a disapproving stare: 'rules?'

'Don't stray too far from the TARDIS, don't invent anything that hasn't been invented yet, and don't get arrested.'

'Arrested?' asks a confused Rory.

'It's annoying.'

Amy grabs her husband by the hand and drags him away, skipping excitedly down the next street. 'We'll be good!' she shouts over her shoulder as the pair leave the Doctor alone, standing in front of the shop window, looking in at a children's book called 'Little Red Riding Hood and the Bad Wolf.'

Alone, the Doctor looks up and down the street, in search of possible entertainment. Although nothing immediately catches his eye, the Doctor decides to walk back in the direction he came from, taking a closer inspection of the gallery of ancient relics on display in the shop windows.

Half way down the high-street the Doctor finds an elderly man sitting on a bench, waiting for a bus. The Doctor joins him, crosses his legs, uncrosses them, and crosses them the other way.

'I've never waited for a bus before' the Doctor tells the elderly man, with a satisfied smile on his face. The man ignores him, and pretends to be interested by something in the opposite direction. 'I don't usually have to wait on other people. I have my own... well it's a bit like a taxi, I suppose. It takes me wherever I want to go.' The elderly man shuffles a few inches along the bench, eager to disassociate himself with the Doctor. Undeterred, the Doctor shuffles up next to him. 'I'm very clever, you see' he continues. 'You know, with science, and technology' he boasts, explaining his point further by flailing his hands. 'It must be very difficult for you?' the Doctor innocently remarks. This, however, hits a nerve with the elderly man, who turns to face the Doctor.

'I would very much like it if you refrained from continuing this conversation' he says from underneath a thick moustache, apparently rather annoyed by the Doctor's suggestion. Without the faintest idea of what he's done wrong, the Doctor stands up and continues to walk back along the busy high-street towards the TARDIS, occasionally looking over his shoulder at the elderly man, who is still rather quite annoyed, and is still waiting for his bus.


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

The curtains are pulled shut to avoid the stares of onlookers, shrouding the small room in a murky darkness. Against one of the walls is an old, worn sofa, upon which a devastated woman sits; one hand covering her teary eyes, the other picking subconsciously at the cigarette burns on the cushions. Kneeling on the floor in front of the woman is a Policeman: he places his hand over the woman's, preventing her from ripping a hole in the cushion, and attempts to comfort her. By the doorway stands another Policeman, his hat under his arm, and a doctor, nervously clutching his medical bag: both men bow their heads in respect.

'Mrs Taylor' says the kneeling Policeman quietly, 'unfortunately we'll need to move the body to the mortuary.' The woman's sobs become louder and her breathing heavier. 'But... for now at least, it'll have to stay here. Another ambulance is on its way.' The Policeman stands and slowly manoeuvres his way around the cluttered coffee table to the doorway. Speaking in a whisper, he addresses the anxious doctor: 'thank you for coming at such short notice Frank, I know it hasn't been pleasant. We won't be needing your services any longer.' The doctor nods his thanks and hastily disappears from the room. 'Mrs Taylor' continues the Policeman, 'if you need anything, we'll be right outside.' He pats his colleague on the shoulder, and the pair creep silently out of the room.

'Well that was grim' mumbles the second Policeman, barely out of earshot of the woman.

'Jackson!' hisses the first Policeman in anger. He prods his partner and motions towards the door. 'Come on, get in the car.'

From within the darkened room, the woman lets out a cry, followed by stifled sobs and whimpers. The woman attempts to wipe the wetness from her face, wiping make-up onto the back of her hands. Upon noticing the smeared mess, the woman buries her face in her hands and begins to wail.

In her distraught and exasperation, the grieving woman is oblivious to the sound of a door being unlatched further down the passageway, leading to the rear of the narrow house. The click of the latch is soon followed by the creak of rusty door hinges. Still the sobbing woman is unaware as the sound of slow footsteps on the exposed floorboards echo in the passageway outside the darkened room. Nor does the patting sound on the staircase, climbing higher through the house, rouse the woman from her state of distress. Only when the slow footsteps reach the top of the staircase – when the top wooden step groans under the weight of a foot – does the distressed woman sense a foreign presence in her house.

The woman raises her face from her shaking hands and turns her head towards the doorway. 'Sergeant Gray?' she says, her voice barely above a whisper. 'Is anybody there?' the woman asks, slightly louder than before. She places her hands beside her on the worn cushions, braces herself, and slowly lifts her body from the sunken sofa. As she attempts to stand, the woman encounters just how physically weak the ordeal has made her: she stumbles, but manages to steady herself on the small wooden mantelpiece above the electric fireplace, scattering tiny plastic and china ornament from their rightful places in the process. The woman carefully inches her way towards the doorway and tentatively looks out into the passageway. 'Sergeant Gray?' There is no reply.

The woman shuffles slowly down the passageway towards the front door of the house and the foot of the staircase. Through the small pane of frosted glass in the door she can make out blurry figures: a few Policeman perhaps, but mostly onlookers – neighbours, friends, or curious passers-by. As the woman arrives at the foot of the staircase, a sense of fear washes over her; she cranes her neck to peer up the staircase, not knowing what she expects to find. The staircase is empty.

Unable to determine whether her actions are out of fear or curiosity, the woman clutches the wooden banister rail and lifts her foot onto the first step of the staircase. The frayed, dusty, floral-pattern carpet is rough under her step; she takes extra caution not to trip on the exposed patches that have been worn down through years of use. At first the woman must concentrate on the strength in her legs and arms in order to conquer each step. After slowly climbing the first few steps, however, she finds renewed strength and energy as her body begins to recover from her fragile state. She climbs slowly but steadily, ensuring her footing on each step is solid before continuing to the next.

As the woman nears the top of the staircase she stops. Suddenly she senses her heightened position and grabs the banister rail and hunches her body forwards to avoid falling. She strains her ears, trying desperately to forget the sound that she heard, but too fearful to do anything to prevent herself from hearing it again. A faint sound of scratching, of tapping, of movement is coming from one of the rooms. Almost against her own will, the woman slowly lifts her foot onto the top step of the staircase: by the time she remembers the loose floorboard it is too late. She lifts herself onto the landing, putting pressure on the top step: the wood groans under her weight. She stands motionless, perched at the top of the staircase, not daring to breath. The scratching, the tapping, the movement continues, unaware of her presence. The woman tracks the direction of the sound, despite knowing already exactly where it is going to lead her.

The woman silently moves along the cluttered landing, navigating past clothes, boxes, and tin soldiers. The sound directs her to the door that she least wants to open. Stopping in front of it, she stands silently for a moment, listening to the sound of movement coming from within the room. Finding the courage to raise her arm, the woman places her hand on the painted name-plate on the wooden door: she caresses it for a moment, feeling the worn paint peel beneath her fingertips, before pushing the door open.

Standing in the centre of the room, next to the bed, with its back to the door, is a child. On the bed are a collection of items: plastic figures, crayons, items of clothing. One at a time, the child is slowly placing each item into a leather-strapped satchel.

The woman, almost paralysed with a mixture of joy and fear, slowly shuffles forwards towards the boy. As she nears him, she becomes suddenly aware of the sound of her own breathing: fast and inconsistent. The woman inches towards to the centre of the room, closer to the boy. She slowly raises her arm, and stretches out a shaky hand towards the boy's pale, rounded cheek that is barely visible from behind. Only inches away from the boy's face, she stops. There is the sound of breathing again: fast, inconsistent, alone – the only sound of breathing in the room.

'Billy?' she whispers. Her hand creeps forwards and brushes the boy's cheek: it is coarse, unnatural, and cold.

The boy slowly turns his head, looking upwards at the woman, who quickly retracts her hand. She goes to scream, but no sound comes. The boy's eyes, which at first she had thought had lost all colour, are rolled upwards in their sockets: only the bloodshot whites of the eyes stare back at her.


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

The curtain is pulled quickly to one side, the small metal hoops clattering against the rail, to reveal Amy Pond striking a pose: one hand pushing her hip outwards, the other pressed against the wall of the small booth she is standing in, one leg slightly bent, with the tip of her shoe touching the floor, and her lips pouted. She wears a tight-fitting, navy blue shift dress that sits extremely high on her thighs, revealing the majority of her long legs, with matching blue high-heeled platform shoes, whilst clutching a small black leather bag.

'So?' she asks her husband, whilst relaxing her pose and sliding a large pair of black plastic sunglasses off of her nose and onto the top of her head. 'What do you think?' She looks down at herself before looking over her shoulder at the mirror in the booth behind her to admire the view of herself from behind. Amy looks back at her husband, who still remains silent.

With his brow furrowed with confusion and his mouth hanging open, Rory is somewhat reluctant to answer, and hesitates for slightly too long.

'I look fantastic!' Amy corrects him; again she looks over her own shoulder to admire her reflection in the mirror.

'Y-yes, you look fantastic' stammers Rory, attempting to feign a convincing tone. Amy glares at him.

'Are you just saying that because I'm saying it?' Amy questions.

'Yes.'

'I thought so,' she replies. Amy skips forwards, places one hand on her husband's cheek and places a soft kiss on his lips. 'You're adorable' she tells him, before spinning around, entering the small changing room and whipping the curtain back across. 'So why don't you like it?' asks Amy from behind the curtain.

No longer under his wife's fixing stare, Rory sits down on a bright green plastic chair outside Amy's booth and attempts to come up with an acceptable answer. 'Well...' he starts, 'it's quite a _short_ dress.'

'It's supposed to be – this is the sixties,' argues Amy from within the booth. 'They'll all be wearing mini-skirts soon.'

'Okay, well – what about the colour?' Rory asks. There is a metallic rattling of hoops as Amy's head and a shoulder appear from behind the curtain.

'It's TARDIS-blue,' she says condescendingly before disappearing again. Rory sits silent in defeat, looking around at the brightly coloured striped dresses and the knee-high leather boots on display. Apart from Amy and him, there is only one other customer in the narrow shop: a short-haired blonde woman talking to the woman behind the counter at the front of the store. From the eager look on the shop assistant's face, Rory assumes that the short-haired woman is more of an acquaintance than a customer, as the couple engage in a lively discussion. Despite the shop being empty of any other customers, the sound of the conversation does not carry to the rear of the shop.

Out of curiosity and boredom, and not wanting to contradict his wife too many more times, Rory stands and slowly manoeuvres his way around the rails of striped skirts and shelves of stiletto shoes towards the front of the shop, and towards the hushed conversation. As he creeps forwards, he takes items of clothing at random from the displays, pretending to be picking them out for his wife, in an attempt to keep a low profile. Engrossed in their conversation, however, the nattering women are not aware of Rory lurking behind a one-armed mannequin that is sporting a floral-print blouse with white, flared trousers.

'...shouldn't be back till late, what with all this funny stuff happening over in Cropley Street. Apparently my Gary was the first one that found him,' says the short-haired woman, speaking so quickly that it takes Rory a second to catch up.

'Oh, Debbie, that must have been _awful_!' the woman behind the counter exclaims with her eyebrows raised, staring intensely at her friend over the top of her glasses.

'Yeah, but hopefully that means he'll be down the station until late,' suggest the blonde woman, with a cheeky smile spreading over her face.

Without understanding a word the gossiping women have said, and suddenly becoming aware of his blatant eavesdropping, Rory turns around with the intention of creeping back towards the rear of the shop to wait for his wife. As he turns, however, he comes face to face with Amy, startling him and causing him to let out an involuntary gasp.

'What are you doing hiding over here, Stupid Face?' she asks, now dressed in her regular checked shirt and tight jeans. Amy looks down at the clothes draped over Rory's arms. 'I hope these aren't for me,' she tells him in disgust; picking out a particularly hideous knitted floral jumper from his collection and holding it at arm's length before throwing it back into his arms.

'No, these are just... erm,' Rory replies, before dropping the bundle of clothes onto another bright green plastic chair sitting against the wall.

'Well you can make yourself useful and buy me this dress,' says Amy, holding up the navy blue shift dress that she had just been trying on.

'Do you have any money?' Rory asks.

'No. Do you?'

Rory shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans in search of money, but instead pulls out and holds up a credit card. The pair share a quizzical look for a moment before both turning their heads towards the shop counter.

'Erm... excuse me?' Rory says to the woman behind the counter, not wanting to interrupt her conversation with the short-haired woman. 'Do you... take credit cards?' he asks slowly, whilst holding up his small plastic card.

'I'm sorry,' says the woman behind the counter, she looks away from her friend and presses her cat-eye spectacles further up the bridge of nose, 'what did you say?'

'Credit card?' Rory repeats.

'I'm very sorry,' she replies, 'I'm afraid we only sell clothes here, sweetie.' The woman behind the counter turns to look at Amy and spots the blue dress in her arms: 'would you like that dress, dear?' she asks, 'it'd look lovely on a girl with your figure.' She drags her glasses to the tip of her nose and looks over the top of them, her eyes scanning Amy from her red hair down to her brown boots.

'Oh – no, I haven't got any money,' says Amy, looking nervously at her husband, 'but it's a very nice dress.' She places it on the counter, grabs Rory by the arm and moves him towards the exit of the shop, leaving the two gossiping women too engrossed in their own affairs to feel anything other than indifference towards Amy and Rory's strange behaviour.


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

The Doctor strides down streets and alleyways whilst rubbing his hands together nervously; not entirely sure as to where exactly he has left his ship. Having already opened two absolutely normal Police boxes, both featuring insides that were in direct proportion to their outsides, he is reluctant to start bothering any more Policemen that might be using the equipment inside the boxes. The scenic route perhaps wasn't the best route back to the TARDIS.

Having passed shops displaying children's dolls, and model airplanes, and shops selling cheap, brightly coloured plastic furniture, brown trench-coats and oddly shaped hats, none of which look particularly cool; and having seen small rusting cars broken down at the side of the road, with large men dressed in dirty overalls hunched over the rattling engines, and record shops with racks of psychedelic album covers, and the monotonous hum of pop-rock emitting from the open window of every passing car, the Doctor decides that the sixties might be fashionable, and sexy, and cool, but it's also _extremely_ boring.

As he rounds the corner, dodging two chatting women, each absent-mindedly pushing a perambulator along the pavement, the Doctor recognises his somewhat familiar surroundings. He glances to his right: further down the street, at an intersection of roads, stand two Police boxes – one a slightly brighter, crisper blue than the other. He crosses over to the pavement on the opposite side of the road and skips eagerly towards the brighter Police box. Reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, the Doctor retrieves a small silver key, and moves it towards the lock in the door of the TARDIS.

With the key only a few inches away from the silver lock, the Doctor stops and looks over his shoulder. In the street directly behind him, the same one that was swarming with Policemen and on-lookers that same morning, comes a muffled scream. The Doctor turns slowly, places the silver key back into his jacket pocket, and, out of curiosity for the second time, paces quickly towards the sound of the commotion.

The Doctor glances into the window of the terraced house that was the location of the earlier incident, but finds nothing except muddy brown drapes blocking his view. Any evidence of the awful scene that had engulfed the street earlier in the day, the crowds of people, the lines of Policemen, and the ambulance parked on the pavement, have disappeared. The throng of people and officials are replaced with an eerie stillness, a handful of passers-by, and a red double-decker bus which has stopped mysteriously in the middle of the narrow road.

As the Doctor walks further along the street, in search of the source of the cry, he notices that the occupants of the bus are stepping out onto the road and dashing towards the front of the bus. Sensing further trouble, he quickens his pace. Upon pushing his way through a small gathering, and reaching the front of the bus, the Doctor understands the reason for the stifled screams.

On the road, surrounded by horrified on-lookers, sobbing elderly women, and an extremely agitated bus driver dressed in a grey uniform, is a woman. Although her face, pressing against the tarmac, is hardly visible, it is evident that the woman is no longer alive: at least one leg appears to be broken, the body lies deadly still, and blood trickles towards the curb. A brave woman with a long blonde pony-tail steps forwards, places her hand on the woman's coarse, cold cheek, before covering her blooded face with a small white handkerchief. The blonde-haired woman then stands, suddenly begins to weep, pushes her way through the crowd of people, and runs awkwardly from the scene.

Not being able to risk looking the body over with his Screwdriver without attracting unnecessary attention, the Doctor scans the scene in an attempt to work out exactly what happened. He takes a step back from the crowd of people still surrounding the body, and glances up and down the street: straight rows of terraced housing flank the road on either side, a pavement wide enough for three people standing side by side bridge the roadside to the fronts of the houses, and the only corners or connecting streets are at each end of the road. With the woman's body being an almost equal distance from either ends of the street it is impossible that she could not have seen the large, bright red double-decker bus coming towards her. There are no marks on the road to indicate that the bus had swerved towards the pavement, and both the bus and the body are situated in the very middle of the road. The Doctor can come to only one conclusion: the woman stepped out knowingly in front of the moving bus.

One of the people surrounding the body, a young man dressed in a brown shirt and corduroy trousers, removes himself from the crowd and looks down the street. Spotting the two Police boxes at the end of the road, he pushes past the Doctor and runs down the pavement towards them. The man attempts to open the door of the cleaner, brighter Police box but finds that his efforts are futile; instead, he steps to the side, pushes at the door of the other Police box, and disappears inside.

Reluctantly the Doctor turns his back on the scene and proceeds to walk back towards the TARDIS; knowing that however suspicious the situation might be, it is not his place to investigate it. He should figure out what is upsetting the TARDIS, and let nineteen sixty-three continue on its own natural timeline. As he walks past the house with the brown curtains drawn across the windows, however, the Doctor pauses and looks back at the scene behind him.

_A small boy died this morning on this street, outside this very house, perhaps even exactly where I'm standing right now; and now a woman, on the very same street, has jumped in front of a moving bus for no apparent reason. Of course, a mother would be upset about losing her child, that's only natural, but children are dying all of the time, every day, and I can't save them; but not every mother, even a grieving mother, has the urge to step out into the road in front of a big red bus..._

Despite knowing that he should probably remain uninvolved, The Doctor steps closer to the door of the house in front of him, reaches inside his jacket pocket, retrieves his Screwdriver, and aims it at the metal lock. Before activating it, however, the Doctor notices that the door is unlatched, and simply pushes it open slowly with his foot.

The Doctor glances up and down the street: the only people in sight are the group of shocked on-lookers surrounding the body in the middle of the road. Satisfied that they are all still preoccupied with the horrific scene in front of them, the Doctor slips inside the darkened house, points his Sonic Screwdriver into the gloomy hallway, and closes the door behind him with the heel of his foot: expelling the bustling sound of the city, replacing it with darkness and silence.

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	7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Hand in hand, Amy and Rory stroll along residential streets, passing terraced housing, local greengrocers, and busy launderettes, towards the dominating skyline of the inner city. Having abandoned their shopping trip, and avoided early exposure of future technology, the couple head towards the river in the hope of doing some nineteen-sixties sight-seeing.

'I still can't believe you thought they'd accept credit cards!' laughs Rory. For the past half an hour, their close encounter in the clothes shop has been a constant source of entertainment for the giddy couple.

'Shut up, you!' Amy responds; swinging their entwined hands at her side. 'At least I wasn't stalking those women!'

'I wasn't stalking,' Rory says defensively, 'I was just–'

'Whatever!' Amy jokingly interrupts. Upon reaching the end of the street, the couple cross over the road, dodging an oncoming black taxi cab and a small family car, and peer over the railings to watch the boats cruise slowly against the current, and into the heart of the city.

Amy and Rory walk upstream along the bank of the river. With each step closer to the centre of the city, the steady hum of routine life – of housewives visiting the local butchers, elderly couples waiting for buses, and mothers chasing after excited children – is slowly replaced with the busy drone of the inner city: rattling cars speeding along the roads, Police sirens whirring in the distance, and congested pavements bustling with businessmen, engrossed in their commute. In an attempt to escape the congested streets Amy and Rory turn onto Waterloo Bridge and head towards the south bank.

In the centre of the bridge stands a plump elderly woman wearing a long, dark green coat over a pale blue dress; her white, curled hair blows violently across her face as she stands facing the breeze that blows along the river. The woman grabs the grey, metal rail in front of her, and ungracefully leans forwards to lift her leg over the protective railing. Now straddling the rail, the old woman raises her other leg in an attempt to clamber over onto the small ledge on the other side of the protective rail.

'Oh my god,' Amy says; stunned by what is occurring further down the bridge. 'What the hell is she doing?' Amy releases her husband's hand and begins to run towards the elderly woman.

By now the woman's actions have drawn the attention of further shocked onlookers: two men dressed in navy blue suits have grabbed the woman's arm in an attempt to coerce her back onto the pavement. 'Please, stand back,' one of the men shouts: he motions to the crowd of people now surrounding the woman to move away, 'she's very ill. Please, stand further back.' He takes the elderly woman by the hand and speaks to her softly, attempting to convince her in simple terms to step back onto the pavement.

Having to stop suddenly to prevent herself from running into the retreating crowd, Amy skids to a halt; she is joined by an out of breath Rory a few seconds later. 'What's going on?' he asks; eager to help in any way possible. Amy cranes her neck in an attempt to look over the heads of the crowd of people. From momentary glances between a sea of moving heads, Amy sees the two suited men holding the woman's hands: one of them leans his head towards the elderly woman, clearly trying to resolve the situation.

'I can't see,' replies Amy, 'looks like someone is trying to talk her down.' She backs away from the crowd and stands at her husband's side. Placing his hand around his wife's shoulder, Rory stares nervously at the crowd of whispering on-lookers. The pair watch together in silence, unsure as to what they can do to help the situation. After a few moments, Rory asks the question that has been revolving around both of their minds:

'Are we allowed to help her?' They share a confused and concerned look.

'I don't know,' replies Amy.

'We _should_ help, but... I mean, what if we stop something that's supposed to happen?' Rory again looks to his wife for an answer, but receives no response. 'It could change everythi–'

Rory's sentence is stopped short by the screams of the crowd. In an instant the mass of people that were surrounding the elderly woman rush to the metal railings and look down at the murky river below. Amy quickly breaks free of Rory's arm and follows the crowd: she leans so far over the railing that Rory grabs her by the waist in fear of her toppling over. She looks over the rail just in time to see the large burst of water creating ripples on the surface of the surging river. 'Oh my god' repeats Amy, this time with a tone of shock and disgust.

As the distressed water subsides, and the ripples dissolve into the steady flow of the current, a cold silence spreads over the crowd of people looking down at the river. Although some of the people walk away, many stay; perhaps in the hope of seeing the elderly woman come rushing to the surface, gasping for air, with arms flailing – most definitely alive. No such miracle occurs; as the collection of on-lookers realise that all hope for the woman's survival has been lost, the crowd slowly diffuses. Many of the people, although complete strangers before the incident, walk away in pairs or groups; bound together by the horrific scene they have witnessed.

After a while the crowd of people disappears entirely, leaving no trace of the event ever existing: cars and pedestrians travel obliviously past the exact spot from which the elderly woman jumped. Still leaning over the railing, however, in complete disbelief, is Amy Pond. She stares at the dark water, unable to erase the horrific thoughts running through her head: imagining the woman's fragile, lifeless body being swept downstream, her lungs filled with sewage, her bones smashing against the concrete bridge supports.

Not knowing what to say, Rory silently places a comforting hand on his wife's shoulder, and guides her away from the rail. The couple embrace; Amy clutches her husband tightly, comforted by his presence. Somewhat rejuvenated by being held in her husband's arms, Amy grasps Rory's hand and the pair continue to walk along the bridge: arriving on the south side of the river in a considerably different mood to when they had left the north bank.


	8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

The murky hallway is bathed in a dim green light. Directly in front of the door is a heavily worn staircase ascending into complete darkness; extending down the side of the staircase is a narrow passageway leading to the rear of the house; half way down the passageway, on the left, is a wooden door, leading to a room at the front of the house. The Doctor surveys the surroundings, making a mental layout of the ground floor, before shuffling cautiously towards the staircase in front of him.

The whirring of the Sonic Screwdriver intermittently infects the still silence of the house. The Doctor quickly scans the staircase, eerily illuminating the peeling wallpaper; the claw of the Screwdriver clicks open and he interprets the data on the readout on the side of the device. 'Oh, hello,' he whispers: the Sonic detects traces of a foreign substance at way beyond the normal levels of concentration. The Doctor looks up into the darkness at the top of the staircase, slowly places his foot on the bottom step, and begins to climb.

Being careful not to catch his feet in the holes of the worn carpet, the Doctor tentatively ascends towards the gloom at the top of the staircase. He continues to scan the steps and the walls as he climbs: illuminating the top floor momentarily in a green glow, before quickly returning it to darkness. Nearing the top of the staircase, as his head breaks above the level of the floorboards on the first floor, the Doctor aims the Screwdriver at each door branching off from the small landing: the foreign substance leads to one door in particular. His attempt at scanning for life forms, however, remains inconclusive.

Upon reaching the top of the staircase, the Doctor winces at the sound of creaking wood. He stops: listening for any sounds of movement or presence. Whilst continuing to scan various surfaces, the Doctor slowly creeps along the landing, avoiding dirty clothes and old toys, to reach the last wooden door. He quickly scans the door with four whirs of the Screwdriver, each split-second scan illuminating the peeling name on the door, and again studies the results on the side of the device. Unsatisfied with the readout, the Doctor presses his ear against the wooden door in an attempt to discover what might be waiting for him behind it.

The door pushes open easily; the Doctor slides his head through the gap he has created and takes a quick inspection of the small room. Satisfied that there is no immediate visible threat, he elbows the door open further and enters over the threshold. The room, although small, appears larger by the lack of furniture. Aside from the unmade bed in the centre of the dingy room, a single small chest of drawers, upon which a clock and two plastic figurines stand, is the only other furnishing. Littering the floor are an assortment of objects: crumpled items of clothing, tattered books, colourful plastic toys, and shredded paper. The brown, patterned curtains, though blocking out the majority of the light from the small window, allow a thin stream of murky light to illuminate the dark walls of the small room.

With his arm fully extended, the Doctor whirs the Screwdriver around the small room, scanning almost every item in an attempt to get a decent reading. Not entirely satisfied with the weak results of his scan, he tries multiple settings, lighting the room with a green glow for short bursts. The unsatisfactory outcome of the scans causes the Doctor to rethink his method: he decides to follow the trail of the foreign substance in reverse in an attempt to find its source. He squeezes through the gap in the door and resumes scanning the staircase as he descends.

At the foot of the staircase, the trail leads the Doctor down the narrow passageway, towards the rear of the house. Undeterred by the gloom, and focusing entirely on following the trail being picked up by the Screwdriver, he creeps along the narrow passage, the glow of his Screwdriver partially illuminating the path. Upon approaching the doorway half way down the passageway, the Doctor quickly scans it before poking his head inside. Sitting inside the room is a badly worn sofa and a small table; dirty brown curtains restrict most of the light entering through the small windows. With an upwards movement and a burst of green light, the Doctor concludes that he should continue further along the passageway.

The Doctor inches slowly along the narrow passageway, towards an old, heavy wooden door. After aiming a quick burst from the Sonic Screwdriver at the metal doorknob, the door unlatches with a metallic clunk and swings open slowly on its hinges. Lowering his outstretched arm, the Doctor cautiously steps into the darkened room.

The Doctor steps onto the stone floor of a kitchen: a dirty worktop runs along the back wall, the sink is overflowing with used plates, pans and utensils, and a wooden table sits in the very centre of the room. Stepping around the table, the Doctor begins to scan the worktop and the floor; the whirring noise of the Sonic Screwdriver echoes off the exposed brick walls of the small, cold room. As if following a trail, the Doctor spins on the spot, nearing in on the source of the foreign substance that can be traced throughout the house. Guided by his device, the Doctor moves his outstretched arm towards the wooden table in the centre of the dark room. He quickly buzzes the device three times over the surface of the table, the claw at the end of the Screwdriver flicks open, and the Doctor checks the readout.

'Whatever it was, it definitely started here...' mumbles the Doctor. He illuminates the surface of the table with another burst of green light, attempting to force a stronger reading. 'It's left a trace – but why can't I identify it?' He holds the Sonic in front of his face and gives it a harsh shake. Still unable to identify the mysterious substance, he clasps the claw of the Screwdriver shut, returns it to the inside of his jacket, and stalks around the wooden table. Squatting down next to the table, he closely studies the worn surface of the wood. The Doctor reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and retrieves a pair of flimsy cardboard glasses with one red lens, and one blue: he looks at the surface of the table through the coloured lenses for a moment before returning them to his inside pocket.

Annoyed by not being able to identify the substance in the house, the Doctor turns on his heel and exits the small, stone floored kitchen. He marches back along the narrow passageway towards the front of the house. The Doctor rubs his hands together whilst he walks; his mind still turning, trying to fathom a logical solution to the situation – _a boy falls out of his window and dies; okay, but why? And then mother his jumps in front of a moving bus; of course it might not have been his mother, it could have been anybody. But there are traces of an alien substance all over the house, and the Sonic can't identify it. Why? What's going on here? What connects it all up?_ Frustrated at not being able to solve the situation, the Doctor slips out of the house and back onto the street. He checks to ensure that the crowd of people are still preoccupied at the front of the bus further down the road, and strides hastily in the opposite direction towards the TARDIS.


	9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

The door of the second, dirtier Police box creaks open and Sergeant Henson steps out onto the pavement. He rubs his wet brow on his sleeve, attempts to rouse the energy to stand up straight, and places a black-peaked cap on his head. To his utter dismay, Henson notices a man walking towards him: floppy, unkempt hair falling across his face, and dressed in a preposterous tweed jacket with a silly bow tie. After a long morning of events that have gone from bad to catastrophic, this silly, childish man is the last person on Earth that Henson would like to see striding towards him.

Upon seeing the quite obviously annoyed Policeman step out of the box and push the door shut behind him, the Doctor slows his pace; unsure as to how to best approach the awkward situation. An agitated, angry, and most likely entirely unsympathetic Policeman is all that stands between him and the relative safety and comfort of the TARDIS.

Henson fiercely itches the back of his hand and drops his head with a heavy sigh: 'I thought I told you to clear off?' he reluctantly asks, looking up at the Doctor with weary, puffy eyes. Henson secretly hopes that the man will scarper again so that he doesn't have to deal with whatever nonsensical story he comes up with.

Seeing no other way out of the situation, and driven by a desire to discover more about the events surrounding the dead woman and child, the Doctor shoves his hand into his trouser pocket and takes out his trusty black leather wallet. He opens up the wallet with one hand and thrusts it towards Henson's face; moving it around slightly in case the paper fails on him and just shows a picture of a dinosaur.

'I'm the Doctor,' he explains, 'on a super-secret, special undercover mission for Scotland Yard. I'm investigating all this funny business–' he waves a hand over his left shoulder, '–and I've just made a very, very important discovery.' The Doctor put his hands in his trouser pockets and rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, waiting to see if his tale is enough to convince the Sergeant. Despite looking somewhat bewildered at the pace at which the Doctor explained himself, Henson accepts his statement with a nod.

'Right – well,' the Doctor looks around nervously, 'if I could just, um, get to my Police box,' he says, pointing at the TARDIS, 'I need to contact my... officers.'

'Well there's no point in trying that one,' Henson replies, nodding towards the brighter Police box, 'I've tried it and it doesn't open.' He steps towards the other box and pulls at the handle: 'here you go – you best use this one.'

The Doctor turns on his heel and shuffles slowly towards the normal, proportionately sized, fixed in time and space, regular, boring Police box.

'Oh – this door opens outwards,' the Doctor points out as he enters. When inside, Henson pushes the door shut with an unsatisfying crack. With the structure of the box being constructed out of rather thick wood, the inside of the Police box is, if anything, even smaller than the outside shape would suggest. The Doctor turns slowly on the spot, keeping his arms tucked into his sides, not wanting to touch the walls of the enclosed space.

A dim electric light buzzes up in one of the corners of the box, and a wooden stool, next to a small wooden shelf littered with documents and pencil shavings, sits on the floor. Next to the cluttered shelf, mounted on the wall, is a telephone with an old fashioned numbered, rotating dial. The Doctor looks utterly disgusted at cramped, gloomy, confined space that he finds himself in. Upon spotting the telephone, however, he remembers why he trapped himself inside the dismal box and shuffles towards it, still keeping his arms flat to his sides to avoid touching the walls.

Reaching out with his hand, but still keeping his upper arm pulled tight against his body, the Doctor removes the receiver from the top of the device. He places the phone to his ear and traps it against his shoulder whilst he awkwardly retrieves his Screwdriver from inside his jacket without extending either arm away from his torso. After sliding the device out of his pocket, he aims a long burst of green light at the round dial of the telephone: the whirring sound of the Sonic Screwdriver travels through the device and out through the receiver at the Doctor's ear. Following a moment of confused silence, the phone begins to ring out to a number that it has never been able to reach before.

'Amy!' exclaims the Doctor; forgetting about his cramped surroundings, he flails his left hand in an upwards motion and smashes it against the wall of the box: 'Ow!'

'Yes, yes, I'm fine... why are you whispering?... oh, yes, I see... no, don't worry, it's just a bad line – it's not used to making a call like this... you could say that... listen, I need you two to do me a favour... I need you to come back to the TARDIS... I know, I know... but it's very important that you return... yes... something's not quite right... okay... okay, goodbye!'

The Doctor places the receiver back onto the phone with a click, and rubs the back of his hand. Eager to get out of the hideously small box, he grabs the door handle and pulls – the door resists. After tugging harder on the handle of the door without success, the Doctor reaches into his pocket and takes out his Screwdriver. He aims the device at the handle and gives the wooden door three quick bursts of green light before palming his forehead in stupidity: _it doesn't do wood!_ Feeling increasingly swamped by the walls of the tiny box, the Doctor grabs the handle and rattles the door furiously, shaking the entire box.

After a moment of frustration, and assuming that a tiny wooden box would be the ironic downfall of the last surviving Time Lord, the door of the Police box swings outwards to reveal Sergeant Henson standing on the pavement with a look of bewilderment and anger on his face.

'Oh – yes,' remarks the Doctor, 'I remember: the door opens outwards.'

'Well you always hear about these odd sorts working in the city,' replies Henson, 'but I didn't quite believe it until now.' He gives the Doctor a stern look and turns to walk down the pavement. 'Come on,' he calls behind him, 'I'll show you to the station.'

Caught between wanting to wait for Amy and Rory to return to the TARDIS and wanting to discover more about the unusual substance found in the house, the Doctor steps out onto the pavement and nervously rubs his hands together. As Sergeant Henson stops, however, and gives him another stern look of contempt, the Doctor reluctantly follows his lead.

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><p><em>Feel free to leave a review and let me know what you think of the story so far.<em>


	10. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

From among the hum of the riverside, of women sat outside cafés gossiping, of elderly men riding past on bicycles, comes a shrill, high-pitched, unnatural ringing. Becoming suddenly aware of her current surroundings, Amy plunges her hand into her pocket in an attempt to mute her mobile phone. She grabs her husband by the arm and drags him into an alleyway to the side of a small café; past a couple sitting at a table looking rather perplexed, unsure as to the origin of the ringing sound. When safely out of sight from anybody in the street, Amy leans against a wall and, with apprehension, slides open the pink phone:

'Hello?... Doctor!... Are you alright?' whispers Amy, as she hears a thud followed by a stifled cry of pain. 'Are you sure?... because I don't want the people to think I'm crazy! They've never seen a mobile phone before... Doctor? I can barely hear you... are you calling from the TARDIS?... okay, well–... okay?... me and Rory haven't finished sight-seeing yet... just a few more hours?... really?... well can you tell me what's going on?... fine, we'll come back... bye.'

Unable to work out the other side of the conversation, Rory begins to question his wife: 'so why do we have to go back?'

'I don't know, he didn't say,' replies Amy, 'but he wouldn't have asked if it wasn't important.'

The pair exit the alleyway under the stares of many disapproving people sitting at the tables outside the café. After manoeuvring their way back onto the street, whilst Rory intrinsically gives apologies to the disgruntled on-lookers, they travel towards the nearest bridge to head back to the northern side of the river. Regardless of their adventure being cut short, the couple, still excited about finding themselves in the middle of London in the nineteen-sixties, walk hand in hand along the river.

Despite witnessing the horrific scene on the bridge earlier in the day, the couple had avoided discussing it and had attempted not to let it ruin their visit to a truly unique period of time. Rory had sensed that the event had, for some reason, affected Amy more than it had him: perhaps it was his experience working in hospitals, surrounded by people in comas and patients that are mentally ill, had meant that the incident involving the woman on the bridge hadn't affected him in quite the same way. Now that they were crossing back over the same bridge, however, walking along the same stretch of pavement from which the woman had jumped, Rory breaks the mutual silence on the subject:

'Amy,' he starts, as they walk hand in hand along the bridge, 'are you okay?'

'Why wouldn't I be?' she replies; slightly sceptical at her husband's sudden questioning.

'Well it's– this morning... on the bridge. We haven't spoken about it,' Rory says tentatively.

'What is there to say?' she replies, somewhat defensively. 'It was horrible. I wish I could have done more to help.'

'There was nothing we could have done,' Rory reassures her, 'those two men... she was in safe hands. It's just... she wanted to do it.' He turns his head to look into Amy's face; she doesn't turn to look at him.

Although the horrible event had occurred only hours before, neither of them could locate the exact point at which it had occurred. The bridge was now host to hundreds of new people going about their busy, daily lives, all as oblivious as they were as to the location from which the elderly woman took her own life. Not wanting to discuss the subject any further, and in respect to the woman, the couple complete their crossing to the north bank of the river in silence.

After the couple cross the bridge they head northwards into the labyrinth of streets in an attempt to find their way back to the TARDIS. They turn into a particularly busy street: red buses and black taxi cabs crawl along the road, and the pavement flows with a mass of people. A few yards ahead of Amy and Rory comes a clattering noise followed by raised voices. Interested in what is causing all the commotion, Rory releases his hand from Amy's grip and cranes his neck to see over the crowd. Before being able to pin point the source of the commotion, the two middle-aged women walking in front of Amy and Rory are suddenly thrust apart by an extremely aggravated man who is stumbling along the pavement, trying to run against the flow of the people.

Unable to regain his balance after unsuccessfully avoiding the two exasperated middle-aged women, the man stumbles towards Amy and Rory. Stretching out his arms, the man grabs Amy in an attempt to stay on his feet. In an instant, Rory helps to steady the man by supporting him under his arms.

'Woah, steady,' says Amy; eager to help the man get back on his feet so that he will let go of her shirt. She bends down to pick up the man's grey flat cap that has fallen from his bald head.

'Thank you, my dear,' the man replies from behind a thick moustache. He retrieves his cap, hastily shakes Amy by the hand and, without another word, continues down the street in the same frantic manner, dodging perambulators, post boxes and people as he runs.

Unsure as to what to make of the event, Amy and Rory share a confused glance. Shaking it off as another strange occurrence in a morning of bizarre events in an alien time zone, the couple link arms and continue on their journey back to the TARDIS.

With his grey cap in hand, the man rushes through the mid-morning traffic; he knocks over racks of hideous brown dresses, and dodges quickly between pedestrians and lampposts. As he steps out onto the road, the breaks of a taxi cab wail as the driver wrestles with stopping the car, sounding the horn and shouting abuse all at the same time – undeterred the man continues running.

Upon reaching his destination, the man stops in front of an anonymous dark green door of a four-storey building. After gasping for breath for a moment, he plunges his hand into his trouser pocket and retrieves a small collection of keys on a silver ring. He fumbles with the keys for a second, before finding the correct one and turning it quickly in the lock.

The man stumbles over the threshold and slams the door shut behind him. He makes his way hastily along a small corridor, almost knocking over an umbrella stand, and enters the only room on the ground floor of the building. Inside the large room are rows of desks, a blackboard is mounted on the wall, covered with chalk scrawls, smartly dressed young men are copying out documents on noisy typewriters, and young women in long skirts are collecting files and making cups of tea. The man ignores the greetings he receives from some of the workers and heads straight towards the staircase at the back of the room.

Not pausing on the stairs to check on any of the other floors, the man climbs to the very top floor of the building. The top floor is split into two separate offices; the man moves towards the door on the left and again fumbles with his keys before opening the lock. He hurriedly steps into his office, slams the door shut, which causes the frosted glass in the door to rattle, and throws his keys and cap onto the cluttered desk. Without apprehension, the man walks to the back of the room, manoeuvring around the desk, a large leather chair, and a low, sagging bookshelf to get to the window. The wooden window frame creaks as the man slowly slides it upwards, allowing a cold breeze and the noise of the city to enter the small room. The man slowly lifts a tired leg over the window sill, allowing him to straddle the wooden window frame. He bows his head, dipping it below the glass, and lifts his other leg over the sill so that he is sitting on the very edge – four floors above the pavement below. Without hesitation the man shifts his weight forwards and plummets.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

The Doctor follows Sergeant Henson's lead, taking them further away from the safety of the TARDIS. The Doctor, led by the Sergeant's extensive knowledge of the area, walks along side-streets, cuts through narrow alleyways, and crosses a small play park until reaching a small, red-bricked building. Thick, black iron bars cover the windows on the ground floor; parked on the road in front of the building are a collection of different cars, all marked with the same blue and white design and embellished with the word 'POLICE'. Other than the Doctor and Sergeant Henson, no other people are to be seen.

'So this is a Police station?' asks the Doctor, looking up at the sign above the door that reads 'POLICE STATION': 'I thought they'd be more... buzz.'

'Go inside, explain yourself to Laura at the front desk; Superintendent's office is down the corridor, last one on the right,' instructs Henson. He turns to leave.

'Are you not coming in?'

'Oh god, no,' replies Henson. 'My shift finished fifteen minutes ago – I'm taking the afternoon off. And besides, I'm not getting it in the neck for bringing you here. I'm not in the mood for bloody paperwork right now.'

Despite giving the Sergeant a quizzical look, the Doctor allows him to leave without further questioning. He checks his inside jacket pocket for his invaluable black leather wallet and hops up the stone steps to the blue wooden door. He pushes open the heavy door and steps into a small reception area: to his left is a desk with a young woman sat behind it, behind her is a wilting pot plant, and opposite her, against the other wall, are three old plastic chairs.

'Take a seat,' says the woman instinctively, without looking up from her finger nail that is being attacked by long plastic file: 'somebody will deal with you shortly.'

Spinning on the spot, the Doctor glances at the uncomfortable-looking chairs before turning his attention back to the uninterested woman behind the desk.

'Erm, yes,' says the Doctor, 'I'm here from Scotland Yard – Inspector... Smith.' He extends his arm and displays his credentials in the leather wallet. 'I've been tasked with a special mission, you see – investigating an important... investigation. Top secret, highly dangerous, shouldn't really tell you any more – need to know basis, I'm afraid.' The Doctor tucks the Psychic Paper back into his inside pocket and moves closer to the desk: 'I'm sort of a... hot-shot agent, you see. A bit like James Bond – he was a nice bloke... ginger,' he recalls, half to himself. 'I couldn't tell you what I was up to even if I wanted to.' The Doctor playfully points at the receptionist and leans forwards onto the desk. He misjudges the height of the desk, however, and stumbles to his left, crashing his leg into the side of the table.

The receptionist looks up at the Doctor and raises an unimpressed eyebrow. Without saying a word she points with her nail file towards the two doors to her left, and watches the Doctor make a hasty exit from the room.

The Doctor, eager to put a distance between himself and the embarrassing situation in the reception area, pushes open the closest door and steps inside. Instead of finding himself in a corridor, however, the Doctor steps into a large room filled with desks; cluttered notice boards cover most of the walls, disinterested men in blue uniforms sort through mountains of paper; more men, some in uniform and some in normal clothes, skulk around the room making coffee, chatting to one another, and throw balls of paper to annoy others. It is the heart of the Police station, the epicentre for crime fighting in the north London suburb, a temple of justice and security, and everybody inside looks entirely disinterested, lazy, and bored.

As the occupants of the room slowly begin to sense the Doctor's alien presence, an awkward hush infects the room. After a few moments, the rustling of paper, the chatting, the shuffling around, and the clinking of empty mugs is subdued, and the entire room stares at the man in the tweed jacket and the bowtie standing at the door.

'Hello,' he says, 'I'm the Doctor.' He strides towards the centre of the room; manoeuvring between static Policemen, waltzing around desks and hopping over a stack of papers on the floor. 'I'm here on a very special mission from Scotland Yard and I need your attention.' He looks around at the bewildered faces surrounding him: 'well I think it's safe to say I have that already.' As he walks past an open-mouthed office-boy holding a tray topped with three steaming mugs, the Doctor helps himself to a hot beverage. 'Something weird is going on and I need your to help me find out what exactly is happening;' the Doctor moves towards an unoccupied desk in the far corner and sweeps an arm across the tabletop, sending the stacks of paper crashing to the floor. He lifts the telephone from the adjacent desk and places it on the now empty table; taking a plastic chair from the corner, he places it behind the desk and sits down.

He places the mug next to the telephone on the table in front of him, crosses his arms, and leans forwards. 'Tell me everything you know about the death of the little boy and the woman on Cropley Street, report to me any other mysterious events in that area, and any major goings-on in the city in the last...'the Doctor look at the inside of his wrist at his watch, 'oh, two hours or so. Anything mysterious or out of the ordinary I want mapped and cross-referenced. I want to know names and addresses; I want eye-witness reports, I want to know what people have seen, what's being said, and any gossip – gossip is good: it has a habit of being what people _want_ to say, rather than what they _ought_ to say. I want it done quickly and I want it done now – people's lives may depend on how you act in the next half an hour.' The Doctor sits with his arm folded on the desk looking entirely pleased with himself. 'Oh!' he exclaims, whilst pointing a finger into the air, 'one last thing: one very important and crucial thing... does anybody have any bickies to go with the tea?' He looks hopefully around the room with his eyebrows raised: 'preferably with jam in them.'

Before he receives an answer, however, a door on the other side of the room slams open, and a tall, imposing man strides into the middle of the room. The man, dressed in a tight navy blue uniform adorned with badges of commendation, despite having greying hair, is lean with broad, powerful shoulders. The younger Policemen step out of the man's path, whilst the older, more experienced officers offer silent respect.

'I'm Superintendant Harrow and this is my station and my officers. Who are you and what are you doing here?'

'Hello, I'm the Doctor,' he says quickly, whilst burying his hands into his trouser pockets. 'I'm from... wait a minute,' he rummages inside his trouser pockets before delving into jacket and pulling out the Psychic Paper. 'Scotland Yard!' he announces; thrusting the open wallet towards the tall, important man. The Doctor snaps the wallet shut once the Superintendent is satisfied and continues to explain himself: 'strange stuff going on, I'm here to investigate, and I need your fine young men to help me.' Feeling pressured by the glare of the Policeman standing over him, the Doctor clarifies his statement: 'that's the short version.'

'Why is Scotland Yard poking their noses in here?' asks Harrow. 'Surely they can conduct any investigation from within the city?'

'New initiative,' explains the Doctor: 'reaching out into the community.' Satisfied that the Psychic Paper has provided the Superintendant with enough information to prevent him from asking too many more questions, the Doctor takes a sip of his tea. 'Now,' he announces to the room, clapping his hands together and ignoring the annoyed look on Harrow's face, 'let's get to work.'

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><p><em>It happens to be my birthday today. That must be cause for a review? I hope you're enjoying the story so far.<em>


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